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What gnashing is not a comfort, what gnawing of the worm is not a tickling, what torment is not a marriage bed to this damnation, to be secluded eternally, eternally, eternally from the sight of God?

John Donne

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John Donne
Died: 1631
Died: March 31
Lawyer
Pastor
Poet
Politician
Songwriter
Translator
Writer
London
England
Very Rev. John Donne
Eternally
Worms
Torment
Bed
Tickling
Sight
Gnawing
Comfort
Secluded
Marriage
Damnation
Worm

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. . . Change is the nursery Of musicke, joy, life and eternity.
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And dare love that, and say so too, And forget the He and She.
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Whilst my physicians by their love are grown Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie Flat on this bed.
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Tis true, 'tis day what though it be? O wilt thou therefore rise from me? Why should we rise, because 'tis light? Did we lie down, because 'twas night? Love which in spite of darkness brought us hither Should in despite of light keep us together.
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Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
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In heaven it is always autumn.
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If they be two, they are two so As stiff twin compasses are two, Thy soul the fixt foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if the other do.
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The Phoenix riddle hath more wit By us, we two being one, are it. So to one neutral thing both sexes fit, We die and rise the same, and prove Mysterious by this love.
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When my mouth shall be filled with dust, and the worm shall feed, and feed sweetly upon me, when the ambitious man shall have no satisfaction if the poorest alive tread upon him, nor the poorest receive any contentment in being made equal to princes, for they shall be equal but in dust.
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God employs several translators some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice.
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O how feeble is man's power, that if good fortune fall, cannot add another hour, nor a lost hour recall!
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I have done one braver thing than all the Worthies did, and yet a braver thence doth spring, which is, to keep that hid.
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Man hath weaved out a net, and this net throwne upon the Heavens, and now they are his own.
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ask not for whom the bell tolls it tolls for thee
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Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.
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Busy old fool, unruly Sun, why dost thou thus through windows and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?
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True joy is the earnest which we have of heaven, it is the treasure of the soul, and therefore should be laid in a safe place, and nothing in this world is safe to place it in.
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Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!
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'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's.
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